


Silver Fox?

by Fiorenza_a



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorenza_a/pseuds/Fiorenza_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle stared despondently at the newly towel dried fluff of curls at his groin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Fox?

Doyle stared despondently at the newly towel dried fluff of curls at his groin. Rebellious and disbelieving eyes refusing to admit what they saw. One single springy discordant hair. Unrepentantly out of step with its fellows. Harbinger of tartan travel rugs and zip up cardigans, of boiled sweets rattling against NHS dentures.

Doyle decided that denial was the only policy. Grey hair sprouting at his temples he'd accepted, protested as unfairly early, but accepted; it being no comfort that, despite thinning, Cowley still looked resolutely sandy, but grey hair sprouting at his...No denial was definitely the best policy. He was held momentarily captive as the ill disciplined train of thoughts derailed itself and crashed headlong into his vivid imagination causing him to picture where else his boss and scourge of Whitehall might also retain his colour. Sometimes having the soul of an artist was no blessing. Visions of Cowley's nether regions were not an inducement to a healthy appetite at breakfast.

Doyle threw the damp towel he was still clutching onto the bed and started to dress in the clothes he'd laid out only fifteen minutes and one earth shattering revelation ago. He didn't feel sexy. He always felt sexy, well sometimes he was knackered, or scared, or cold, or consumed by fury, but mostly he felt sexy. No one enjoyed the feel of his body more than he did. Although one or two had come close and those memories still elicited a certain amount of retrospective enthusiasm from the hitherto reliable piece of equipment which had just so comprehensively betrayed him.

''We're not going to get too much more of that if you go round looking like you qualify for a bus pass'' he rebuked his most treasured assets.

He wiggled his hips in the mirror. His plastered on and paper thin jeans displaying goods whose quality he no longer felt sublimely confident in advertising. He wasn't stupid; he knew that confidence went a long way in selling his denim foiled wares. Who'd want a bargain basement package? Window faded, no longer capable of being sold as up to snuff. Grey.

Well white actually. Grey wouldn't have been so bad, grey was still a colour. White was an absence of colour, the blank canvas, the unfulfilled potential. Unfulfilled was not a promising word.

''You keep this up and we'll be spending much more time together'' he warned the sleeping bulge in his jeans ''no more parties of two. Just you, me and these'' he said, flexing his fingers in front of his fly in order that the imperviously dozing flesh should be left in no doubt of the unthinkable consequences of its precipitous dash for gravitas.

''I for one am not ready for beekeeping in Sussex, I haven't finished misspending me youth. And when I have I intend to misspend me middle age. All of it. I intend to be an exhausted old man, with a smile on me they couldn't prise off with a tyre iron. And you, sunshine, are vital to this plan of operations'' he lectured his offending manhood as he busied himself cooking a breakfast even Bodie would have approved.

''I'm not going to have you slacking on the job, clear?'' he quizzed the inert jewels as he tucked into the fry up, a grilled tomato catching in a solid lump on the way down as a far less cosmetic failure occurred to him. ''Failure to launch is not an option'' he warned the slumbering centre of his most favoured pastime. ''I'm willing to excuse the odd booze related fiasco'' he winced at the memory of a less than memorable night after a lock in at the Trafalgar, the landlady still looked at him reproachfully. He'd been too hung over the following morning to redeem himself and only went there now when he couldn't talk Bodie into going anywhere else. Bodie liked the landlady, she met all his criteria and never said 'no'. Although, God bless her, she apparently didn't say anything else either because his life had remained mercifully free of Bodie's alleged wit on the subject.

''We have a life to live, my old mate, birds to do and memories to be made. Want something to shock 'em with at the nursing home don't we? It's either that or resign ourselves to pigeon fancying, up to you. Know which I'd prefer.''

A sudden vision of a plump coy pigeon all seductive pinks and soft greys with long fluttering eyelashes and a wantonly suggestive wiggle, cooing at him over its shoulder, startled his mind and put other places on alert too. ''Oh awake are we now? The memory of Brenda expecting every man to do his duty not good enough, but one fat pigeon and you're anybody's? Perverse that is. Get us arrested that kind of behaviour. You do that in the park and I'm letting Brenda have you. She's not impressed with you, no telling what she'd do.'' The threat didn't have the desired effect. Apparently _he_ might have decided, that as far as Brenda was concerned, discretion was the better part of valour, but the instigator of the fiasco had obviously decided it was a challenge worth rising to. Literally. ''If you think I'm going back there, after that night, after she's had Bodie on full throttle, you have got to be out of your twisted little mind. That's one battle we'll chalk up to the French'' he told the firming flesh unequivocally.

''We need to think about something else, how about that bloody report? That ought to cool your ardour until I can do something about it. Promise I'll 'phone Sandra, that should keep you happy. Sprang up every time the telephone rang for nearly a week afterwards, bloody embarrassing in Cowley's office. You should think yourself lucky he doesn't think you're sweet on him.''

Apparently the thought of the Machiavellian Scot was sufficient to do what the humiliation at the Trafalgar had not. ''That's better'' said Doyle ''no time to see to you, the only reason Bodie's not already whingeing about us running late is because his watch only works to pub opening hours. He'll be stuffed if we go to all day opening. Not to mention what he'll do with his afternoons if Brenda decides to spend her time behind the bar. Doesn't bear thinking about. I'll swear not getting his end away explains his driving. He'll end up killing us if he's forced to sublimate that much.''

Doyle picked up the breakfast things and put them in the sink ''No time to see to you either'' he told them and then went in search of his jacket. He picked up the still damp towel piled on his bed and returned it to the bathroom. Then he made the bed. It always looked lonely to him with no one in it. ''See if we can't get Sandra in there tonight eh mate? Keep us both happy that would. Might even keep Bodie happy if he'd ever agree to it. _No threesomes_. Who'd have bet on Mr Shag-anything-that-moves deciding to be prudish? He ever agrees to it and you let me down I'm cutting you off, meself, with a rusty penknife, you hear?  Have to admit it's funny the things he won't do, probably not as funny as the things he will do, or says he's done, still never thought he wouldn't go for it. Sworn off maybe, or maybe he gets all soppy with 'em. He never seems to turn up one that isn't happy to see him again. Not like mine. If they're not all hurt and resentful, they're trying to kill me. I'd blame you, but they all seem happy with your contribution.'' Doyle hooked his jacket from where it was hanging, on the back of the bedroom door, and slipped into it.

Bodie would be screeching into a parking space and bounding up the stairs any time now. Bet Bodie didn't have a little grey traitor nestling under his corduroy, sapping his confidence and making him feel old. Doyle locked up the flat and made his way downstairs, might as well meet CI5's resident Adonis in the street and shave a few minutes off the rollicking he and Bodie were bound to cop for being late from a certain tartan spitfire with a certificate of ownership. If they were lucky Bodie's driving might even get them there on time. If he turned up now and with a death wish.

The squeal of vulcanised rubber being welded inch deep onto the road surface announced Bodie's attempt at breaking. The car sliding to a miraculous halt a hair's breadth from Doyle's leg. Unfazed by this morning's attempt at homicide Doyle got in and was promptly rocketed back against his seat as Bodie attempted to disprove Einstein. ''Morning'' said Bodie cheerfully.

''Not much good about it'' replied Doyle despondently.

''And the wrong side of whose warm and welcoming bed did we get thrown out of this morning?''

''Just not in the mood, okay Bodie?''

''You need cheering up my son. This should be good for a laugh...''

''...Oh yeah?'' Doyle's curiosity was always easily aroused, much like the traitorous bag of goods in his jeans.

''Guess what Brenda found last night?''

''The withered remains of my self respect?''

''Huh?''

''Never mind, what did she find?''

''Grey hair, tucked under me balls. Told her I'd worn 'em out servicing her. She's insatiable that one, don't know why you've never tried. I mean I know she's not as young as she was, but she makes up for that in experience and just plain stamina. You should give it a try Raymond my old lad. Bet she'd give you a few grey hairs too.''

''She might not have to try that hard.''

''Bloody prat, what does he think he's doing?''

''I dunno, perhaps he thought you might give way?''

''What for? Could get a brace of brewer's drays through that flaming gap. Sunday driver. What were you saying, my little Raymond of sunshine?''

''Didn't it bother you? Grey hair? There?''

''Why should it? Fully intend to be making use of it when it's all grey, might have to revise me upper age limit, but they keep 'emselves in shape now do birds, it's all 'feel the burn', bet there'll still be some good 'uns about when I'm sixty. Got to have a retirement plan. It's prudent. Cowley says so.''

''That might not have been what he meant.''

''It's good enough for me.''

''It really doesn't bother you does it?''

''What grey bollocks? Nah mate. Silver fox that's me. No hen house safe.''

Doyle dropped his head to gaze at his own, suddenly much more alluring, denim clad bollocks. ''Silver fox? Now there's something we could work with, eh lads?''

  
  


  
  


END


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